Page 8 of Retribution

“I am to send you on an errand without me,” he said. “Would you like that?”

It was difficult not to gush out an answer at that question. Would she like it? She would like nothing better. He kept her cooped up within this townhome like a prisoner, unwilling to even let her out of her chamber most of the time because he was jealous of his men looking upon her. He was incredibly selfish with her beauty, keeping it only for himself, so the offer to go on an errand was shocking.

Shocking and welcome.

She struggled not to overreact.

“If that is your wish,” she said steadily. “I will do whatever your bidding may be, my lord.”

He shoved more seafood into his mouth. “You are a good lass,” he said. “I appreciate your willingness and I know your father appreciates it. Your behavior reflects well upon him.”

Now her father was brought into the conversation.

Cleodora’s heart sank.

There was a threat in that statement. There was always a threat when he brought up Everald de Beaumont and Cleodora was well aware. Cambridge might have smiled at her, and called her a good lass, but deep down, there was a vein of darkness running through him. A man who expected everyone to do what he wished for them to do, her included.

Your behavior reflects well upon him.

When he said that, he meant something else.

Behave and your father will live.

He had to remind her of that, as if she didn’t already know. But it was more than that—the truth was that her very presence with the archbishop was yet another power struggle between the prince of the church and, this time, her father, who was a man of greed and immorality when it came to the usage of his beautiful daughter.

Another man who used her to his advantage.

And another man Cambridge was threatened by.

“I honor my father, my lord, as I honor you,” Cleodora said in an answer of self-preservation. “Thank you for allowing me to be of service. Where shall I go today?”

He smiled, fish on his lips. “To the dressmaker, of course,” he said. “She has finished the special garment that I commissioned for the feast and you will collect it today.”

Another white dress, she thought. It was difficult to summon the excitement for such a thing, but summon she did, as if her life depended on it.

Which it did.

“You are very generous, my lord,” she said. “I am very grateful.”

“Good,” he said, turning back to his food. “You may go now. Retrieve the garment.”

Cleodora immediately stood up. “I will, my lord.”

“You will bring it back and wear it for me. I would see what it looks like.”

“Aye, my lord.”

He went back to his food, as quickly and easily as if she no longer existed. He had the ability to shut her out the moment he no longer had use for her. Cleodora had learned how to react in these moments and that was to flee.

And flee she did.

Cambridge was well aware. He had orchestrated their entire relationship in such a manner that Cleodora took silent cues from him to do exactly as he wished. In this case, it was leaving him to his fish feast after their conversation. Sometimes, he allowed her to remain when he was at his table, watching him eat, because having her attention upon his moving mouth aroused him from time to time. There was something seductive about her pale eyes upon his lips as they slurped soup or sucked oysters. Strange, he knew, but then again, he was a strange man.

He was also a cunning one.

As he listened to Cleodora’s footsteps fade away, a servant approached the table with more wine. It was a servant who had been with him for a long time, a man from a good family in Norfolk. Langford de la Rosa was actually more of a companion than a servant simply because of his family’s social status, but he served Cambridge as if he were the most loyal servant in the world. If Cambridge needed it, Langford would provide it. If Cambridge demanded justice or satisfaction, Langford would ensure it happened. It was an odd dynamic between the two of them, both friends and lord to servant, but it worked for them. It had for almost ten years. Cambridge was buried in the white fish in front of him, but he caught a glimpse of Langford’s familiar hand as it poured more ruby-red wine into the golden cup next to his trencher.

“I am surprised that you are allowing her such freedom, my lord,” Langford said quietly. “I congratulate you for it.”